tive agencies at his command without effecting
the least change in my condition.

Richard Morton is an orphan; so am I. He is young, strong,
good-looking, clever, and poor. I am the first, second, and fifth; as
to one's own beauty and cleverness it is difficult to speak
impartially.

I have thought for nearly six months, and indeed I am still inclined
to think, that Richard Morton loves me, and I was equally certain,
until a few weeks ago, that he was only awaiting a suitable
opportunity to declare his love and ask me to marry him. I had made up
my mind, whenever he should put the important question, to answer him
frankly and joyously in the affirmative; not because he is the
handsomest or most brilliant or most desirable person in the world,
but because for sheer lovableness and husbandliness he is unsurpassed
and unsurpassable.

In March Cousin Sarah made a visit to Germantown and met there a Mrs.
Taunton, Richard Morton's widowed aunt. When the intimacy had
progressed sufficiently Mrs. Taunton told Cousin Sarah one day that
she hoped her nephew would eventually marry a certain Amy Darling, a
near neighbor of hers; that Miss Darling's father and Richard's had
been friends from boyhood; and that they had always planned a marriage
between the two young people, each an only child.

Of course, Mr. Darling, who died only this winter, did not indulge in
any such melodramatic or bookish nonsense as setting down commands or
desires in his will, nor were any of his bequests dependent upon them.
He did talk with his daughter, however, during his last illness, and
he did leave Richard Morton a letter expressing his regard and
confidence, and saying that as his daughter was entirely without
relatives he should have felt much happier had he seen her married
before his death. If he had stopped there all would have been well,
but he went on. He knew, he said, that Amy was one of the sweetest and
most attractive girls in the world, and if a mutual affection should
grow out of her acquaintance with Richard he would be glad to know
that the fortune he had made by his own energy might be a basis for
the future prosperity and business success of his old friend's son.

Cousin Sarah came home from Germantown quite excited by this romance
and discussed it with me daily, in exasperating unconsciousness that I
could feel the least distaste for the subject.

"It seems almost providential, Philippa," she said, over her
knitting.

"Pro